Uncle Sherly
by totalphangirl
Summary: A string of child murders are sweeping through London. And when John Watson's four-year-old daughter goes missing, Uncle Sherly is soon on the case. Please read & review
1. Chapter 1

**Hi, and thank you SO much for clicking on my story! (I'll try not to waste your time now you lovely lovely person :3)**

**Well, firstly, I am a lonesome girl who lives off reviews. (Ahem:) REVIEW! PRETTY PLEASE! EVEN IF YOU HATED IT I STILL WANT TO KNOW PEOPLE ARE READING IT! GAH!**

**Also just before you read this I want to warn you: there will be swearing, and themes of abduction, death, and pedophilia. In this fic, John and Mary's daughter (Lily,) is four years old.**

* * *

'We've got another one.'

'What?' John pressed the phone into his ear, one hand on the steering wheel.

'I said we've got another one!' Sherlock's voice was borderline excited, but not as excited as usual; he knew John would be upset to hear about this.

'Oh Jesus,' he heard John breathe, and he could almost see his shoulders slouching a little. There was a pause, a sad sigh, and then: 'How old this time?'

'Four, again.'

'Oh _Jesus.'_ He gave a quick glance behind him at Lily who was asleep in her car-seat, jam smeared around her mouth, sporting wellies, pyjamas and a tutu. 'Well I'll try and be there as quick as I can but I've got Lily here with me.'

'Is Mary home?'

'Yeah.' Sherlock gave a sympathetic nod; Mary and John hadn't been getting on to well lately.

'I'll drop her off at home and then I'll be there.' With that he chucked his phone onto the passenger seat and swerved the steering wheel around.

* * *

Lestrade's office stank of sweat and coffee. It was packed with people, muttering, leaning over his desk and studying the contents sadly. John awkwardly pushed his way through the sea of humans, mumbling apologies, until they parted silently and he made his way towards Sherlock.

The detective's cuff was undone, and he had three white nicotine patches on his inner arm. His brow was furrowed in concentration, and he was studying a messy pile of papers on the desk, photographs, John soon realized. 'John,' he said without looking up.

'Sherlock.' His eyes fell on the papers and he quickly snapped his head away, cursing under his breath. They were photographs of the dead girl, her face acid-burned, her body limp and discarded. Sherlock looked up, his eyes grave.

'Our third.'

The third four-year-old kidnapped girl, killed identically with acid, found two days after her abduction in London.

Any excitement Sherlock had for the case was wiped away. He looked as if someone had slapped him. John inhaled.

'Same circumstances?'

'Found dead this morning, Lauren Daly, four years old. Someone found her body chucked in the park,' he gestured his hands towards her mauled face. 'Acid. This kind's hard to get a hold of; whoever did this knew what he was doing. And there are needle marks in her wrist… he drugged her, Chloroform probably.'

John still wasn't looking at the paper, and was in fact eyeing everything else in the room apart from it. Since Lily was born this stuff had gotten harder.

'So… any new leads on the killer?'

'No. We know it's the same man though.'

'No fingerprints?'

'He works in gloves.' There was an unspoken "_Sneaky Bastard_." 'Her body's in the morgue now with Molly. Her parents have just identified her.'

There was a sudden ripple as everyone lowered their heads. John could just imagine being dragged into something so hellish and terrifying. 'We inspected the body beforehand. And it's not a rape case.' There was a tiny sigh of relief as everyone's worst fears were left unconfirmed; they weren't chasing a murderer _and _a rapist.

'We're dealing with a killer?'

'Yes. But he's not just another sloppy psychopath. He's a man who can cover his tracks…' Sherlock locked eyes with John, his voice low and angry. 'He's an expert at this. An expert killer; and he's not done yet.'


	2. Chapter 2

_He found this charm to children. They were so blunt and blatant, so easy and unsuspecting. They were also weak; If he were to grab a child and force her into a car with him, then he'd win. There was no doubt; he was stronger. But that's not what he liked… he liked luring them. He liked the thrill of the chase, the innocent smile, the completely calm, willing child who'd clamber into the back seat. Grabbing a child caused noise. It caused panic. But when a little girl crawls into the back of your car and you lean over, you clip her in safely, you offer her water because she looks thirsty, and you placidly drive away, no-one suspects a thing._

_He didn't get the whole Wrestling- Kids- Into- Cars tactic. They're humans, not animals… just stupid, naïve humans. You forget how easily they can be manipulated without violence. You also forget how they put their trust in adults. _

_The park was vast. It was crawling with kids. With his last victim being such a success, he didn't see why he shouldn't go for two today. _

_He squinted, scanning the open space meticulously. There were plenty of those pudgy toddlers with juicy cheeks. But they weren't really his type. He liked slim, big eyes, like a Disney character. __Suddenly he stopped. A girl and her mother. The girl looked young enough, skinny-limbed, brown hair, wellies and a tutu…_

_A smile crept onto his face. He liked her. He liked her a lot. _

_His hands were wet. He rubbed them discreetly on the thigh of his pants and dropped the smile, wrapping his scarf around his mouth. It's always a warning sign when a man starts smirking at kiddies. _

_The mother laid the little girl down to answer the phone. She had dyed yellow hair and was wearing a thick coat and gloves. Her breath was foggy in the cold December air. _

'Hello?' Mary's sharp voice arched through the phone. John pulled a face, knowing she was still mad at him.

Last night they'd had an almighty argument. Mary was screaming, her face red, her eyes narrow and glittering, tears running down her cheeks. John couldn't even remember what they were arguing about, but it definitely wasn't their first; and she didn't seem too pleased when she'd had to look after Lily unscheduled.

'Um, hello Mary.' He swallowed.

'John,' her voice was stony, and John could make out the screeches of children in the background.

'Are you in the park?'

'Yes.'

'Oh.' He paused, his voice suddenly sincere. 'Mary… thanks for taking Lily this afternoon,'

'I didn't really have a choice did I?'

'I know but… I'm sorry. I got called in. We… We've got another one.'

Mary's eyes widened. 'What?!'

'Another girl.' Mary cupped the mouthpiece of her phone with her hand for a second, taken aback. Another girl? God, this was getting serious.

'Mummy,' Lily piped up. She was smiling with those stubby little baby teeth of hers, jam still smeared up her cheeks. The girl was sat in the sandpit, dunking one of her Barbie dolls into the powder as if it were water. 'Who's one the phone?'

In spite of everything John broke out into a smile, just about hearing Lily's voice on the other end.

Mary sighed, staring at the grey overcast sky. It looked like a watercolor painting. She plastered a smile to her face. 'It's Daddy.'

'Daddy!' She drummed her wellies in the sand. 'Can I speak to Daddy?' Mary tried forcing back a genuine smile. That little girl could always brighten things up.

'Alright then, but be quick.' The phone switched hands and Lily heaved her bottom from the ground, the tutu peaking in the air.

Lily was just a sweet little girl. There were no two ways about it. She sported a contagious smile and a winsome giggle… but was rather intelligent for her age. Her imagination was exceptional, and she was a thoughtful, empathetic, introverted little child.

Her father loved her to bits.

'Hello Lily,'

'Daddy!' her mouth was open in a huge smile, like she hadn't spoken to him in years. 'Daddy where are you? I woke up and I was with Mummy, and I was supposed to be with you, and I thought that maybe you were at work, and I went to get Mummy, and she said you were at work, and then I said well what will we do, and then she said let's go to the park…'

The only thing that mildly irritated both parents was Lily's babbling.

'And then I said can I talk to Daddy? And she said Yes!'

'Wow,' John said with just the tiniest hint of boredom… but he was still grinning.

'Are you at work now?' John heard her put her thumb in her mouth.

'Yes I am.'

'Will you be home soon?'

'I'll probably be home when you're in bed.'

'Ohh! But we're _reading _tonight!'

'Can't you get Mummy to read to you?'

She paused, and whispered in what she perceived was a discreet voice: 'I love you both the absolute same but you are better-er at reading than Mummy.'

The grin stretched wider. 'I see… well I'll try and be home as soon as possible okay?'

'Okay… Oh! Is Uncle Sherly there with you?'

The grin threatened to become a laugh.

Sherlock had definitely warmed up to Lily over the years. He did love her as much as he would his real niece… But he despised the title "Uncle Sherly."

At that moment in time Sherlock was pacing up and down, scrutinizing a test tube that held a flake of Lauren's pink T-shirt.

'Yes… Yes—' He gave Sherlock a pat as he passed, catching his attention. '_Uncle Sherly _is actually right here,' Sherlock rolled his eyes as John began to chuckle very quietly.

'Ooh Uncle Sherly! Can I speak to Uncle Sherly please?'

'I'll see if he's busy,' John said, as Sherlock whipped around from his test tube. 'She wants to speak to you,' he mouthed. The detective gave a small nod.

Even he found Lily quite charming.

'Hello?'

'Uncle Sherly!'

'We don't have time for this,' Mary muttered, folding her arms.

'Lily. I need to have a very serious conversation with you.'

'Really? About what?'

'My name.'

'Your name?'

'Lily, come on,' Mary stuck her hand out for the child to take.

'Just a minute Mummy… What's wrong with your name?'

'Nothing, but my name is Sherlock, _Sher-lock_, not Uncle… _Sherly_,'

'Oh, I see… Um… _Sher_lock.'

'Lily!' Mary took a hold of her other hand briskly, pulling her small scarf out of her bag and wrapping it around her neck.

'Yes, that's it,' Sherlock said.

'I have to go now,'

'Alright then. Goodbye Lily.'

'Goodbye Uncle Sherly, love you!'

He sighed. 'I love you too Lily,' he mumbled, and the line went dead.

'Come on you!' Mary said, her tone suddenly bright. She could sense there was going to be rain soon as she took Lily's hand in hers and hurried home.


	3. Chapter 3

_He could feel his pulse quiver. He could feel a shiver of pleasure flash through him as he stood carefully, hands in pockets, watching the mother and daughter walk away, hand in hand. He had to be cautious now. Discreet. He had to find a way to get the girl on her own. _

_Cutting across the coffee-brown lake the cold air slapped him, stinging his skin. The girl was now just a pastel-smudge of pink in the distance, getting further away from him. He had to hurry up. If he did it properly he could make it look like he wanted to get home fast. It was a clear strip of path from here, shrouded by trees, cold and crisp with fresh British air. They rounded a corner as he caught up with them, behind them, and they headed off down the lane oblivious. There they approached a large house, the mother unlocked the door, and they were swallowed by it. _

_He slid a cigarette lighter out of his pocket and popped one between his gloved fingers, and then between his lips. His nerves were jittery. His pulse was quickening. His hands were shaking. The girl, curly brown hair, button nose, baby-teeth, pyjamas, a tutu and wellies. The girl with a slice of wrist and ankle. The girl with skinny legs, who still looked elegant as she flitted off down the street. He made a mental note of their house and turned to go back to the park. _

John sighed, rubbing his face. He'd been watching the rain from his car window, a soggy gray spectacle. Cars zipped past him, for he'd pulled over onto the side of the road. The sky was a sapphire-blue colour, rain was lashing at his windows and clouds still clogged the sun like grey marshmallows.

He was tired; it had been a long day. He and Sherlock had gone to find evidence of the place where the girl was kidnapped. Nothing. It was apparently on the pavement near Hyde Park, thankfully not close to where he lived, where the kidnapper had lured a young girl playing on her scooter into his car. Primarily, Sherlock thought the man was clever. He hadn't caused any suspicion what so ever when he invited a kid into his car (which was apparently a silver Mitsubishi.) John thought he had nerve. He'd kidnapped a girl in broad daylight, in a crowded place, and no warning bells seemed to go off. He obviously wasn't the typical guy in a trench coat baddie who offered children sweets.

He was persuasive and unthreatening.

There was an empty coffee cup in the holder of John's car. He'd had numerous cups of coffee and tea throughout the day, and had singlehandedly gotten through half a packet of custard creams when watching CCTV footage of the kidnapper's car. The footage was three hours long, and the car was parked precisely, purposefully, at the exact spot where the cameras couldn't reach him.

Like I said, he was smart.

Afterwards he went and sat silently in the lab with Sherlock for a while. Unlike most cases, Sherlock was right at the forefront of this one. He'd deduced little to nothing, but did manage to get a DNA sample of the kidnapper's hair. He was blond.

Two hours later and Sherlock hadn't amounted to anything. He told John that he might as well go home, and he'd call him if he needed him again. John had obediently clambered into his car (He and Mary both had separate cars now,) and began to drive just as the first bullets of rain pelted his windscreen. On his way home John was struck with a sour kind of epiphany. It was something he didn't want to acknowledge. It had been stuck at the back of his mind for over three years.

He didn't love Mary anymore.

The thought had made his car swerve a little, and he pulled over onto the side of a ditch, ready to absorb the news.

There was no world-crumbling-down-on-his-shoulders feeling. It was more of a sad sigh, or a sigh you make when a child has done something disappointing. He was disappointed in himself. Truly and deeply. He didn't love Mary. The spark was gone. The bond. She could never mean as much to him as she used to before she turned out to be a bitter liar.

On top of that he knew that Mary would never agree to a divorce, although he badly wanted one. And it wouldn't be good for Lily.

The blue sky bled to an inky black, his watch turned to nine O clock, and John sat drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. All of a sudden his phone rang in his jeans pocket, making him jump. He recovered after a second as the piercing sound passed, and reached a hand to fumble in his pocket for it. He pressed the answer button, not bothering to check who was calling, and put the phone to his ear.

'Hello?'

Crying. Sobbing. Rushed, rapid breaths.

John's voice became low with concern and seriousness. 'Hello?' he said again, his heart thumping. Who was this?

'John?' It was Mary. His blood turned to ice-water. He jerked upwards, his eyes wide.

'Mary?' His pulse was drowning everything out now, adrenalin and fear thumping through him. 'Mary what's wrong!? What's happened Mary!?'

'John!' she said again breathlessly, still crying, choked, heartbroken sobs. 'John… Lily… Lily's missing!'


	4. Chapter 4

The little girl's room looked painfully placid. Her bed sheets were thrown back, a little twisted, but only like she'd been moving in the night. Her small worn toy rabbit she'd christened 'Pink' was strewn along the mattress, dulled down to a matted grey as usual… but this was what started Mary off crying. She laid her head on John's shoulder, jerking with sobs, tears running down her face. It took John a second to process that she was there before he very slowly put an arm around her. His own face was shiny with tears, but his eyes were wide and dazed; still in shock. Lestrade and Sherlock had arrived almost immediately, and Sherlock had this aggressive, hungry look on his face. As he was searching her room he found he was shaking. Shaking with rage.

It was needless to say that this was one of his hardest cases. The emotional attachment never helped, granted, but even so, this was a tidy kidnapper. White-hot paroxysm was coursing through him. Panic, fear, anger and a dash of adrenalin. Every time he moved, he wanted to move faster. Every time he picked something up with gloved hands he wanted his mind to race, to spew out countless deductions. His heart was pounding loudly and painfully. There was an avuncular tenderness that concocted a bittersweet feeling of fear and love. He suddenly felt the terror of the parents. He was gripped by the same fist. He just wanted her home. No massive show of intelligence, just a safe little girl.

He looked upwards, his eyes stinging with something. He gave another scan of the room, just to test his theory. 'He arrived through the window… dressed in some kind of protective clothing. Latex gloves, shoe protectors, that kind of thing. He took her straight from the bed so he would have been…' he took a second, moving his arms around. He settled with one cupped next to his waist, the other cradling a shoulder-high head. 'He would have held her like this but with one hand, the other he would have used to get them both out of the window and onto the pavement—' he suddenly whipped around and marched to the window. It was open, wind gushing in, but no cars parked on the pavement beneath it. He inspected the windowsill, rubbing his finger along.

There were no distinct ridges where a ladder could have rested, not even a shift of dust from where someone's feet could have landed. The whole place was unperturbed and untouched.

'No… forget that…' he turned swiftly and ran from the room, darting down the stairs with the trio of people following him.

'What is it?' John croaked. Heartbreak was already visible in his voice.

'The kidnapper came through the _front door_ and back out that way.'

'What?' Mary's voice was squeaky, her eyes raw. 'But… I would have seen him, or heard him…'

'Yes I know. But he knows how to do things; he managed to enter a house and a girl's bedroom wearing shoe protectors and latex gloves…' the stinging was back in Sherlock's eyes again. He blinked, alarmed. 'I'm not sure how he could have gotten inside… the windowsill was untouched.' He tried to produce a clear picture of the room in his head. There was one window that let in a thin gray rectangle of light. There was one door that led straight out onto the landing… Oh what was he _thinking!_ It was so _obvious! _'The kidnapper could have entered through any upstairs window!' His voice reached a crescendo as he was struck with the epiphany. 'Yes! Either Mary and John's bedroom window or the bathroom window! He climbed in while Mary was downstairs in the living room, cut across the landing and carried her out of one of the windows!' His mind was already pulsing with thought. Racing. Sparking. All of a sudden he turned and ran back up the stairs, forcing the three adults to part quickly. At the back of John and Mary's house was a bathroom. If you were to look out of the bathroom window, you would see their small garden with a flimsy wooden fence. On the other side of the fence were streets. Sherlock slammed open the door to their grey-slate bathroom, dashing straight over to their small window. Smaller than small. Tiny.

_How could he have fitted through here?_

Tossing the thought aside, Sherlock inspected this windowsill. Again, it was utterly unmarred; Not a single speck of dust was shifted out of place. His shoulders fell and he slumped forwards, lifting a hand to ruffle his black hair indignantly.

'Well?' John's voice was desperate.

Sherlock turned.

'I don't know.' The stinging in his eyes subsided slowly and a tear was discarded, cutting a neat track-way down his cheekbone.

There was no evidence. Not a hair or footprint. None of the windows had been touched. The kidnapper must have gone out of the front door, he _must_ have… and then flung the window open to cause a diversion.

Wait…

Lily's window.

Lily's security system.

'_Wait!'_ Sherlock bellowed, startling them all. He paused, thoughts back in his mind. 'The security system! How did the kidnapper open Lily's window with the security system still on?'

John and Mary looked at one another, entirely disabled of speech.

Lily's window had a very effective security system. Her room was boiling hot in summer because in order to even open the window, the keypad in the kitchen that activated her security system had to be disabled. Her room was freezing now, as a cold gust of wind flew through the window and swilled through the room. Mary shivered.

'I have to check the keypad for his fingerprints,' Sherlock muttered, more to himself than to Mary and John. There was still this great concern flaring within him. It made him frown as he skipped the last three steps of the stairs and made his way to the kitchen.

He removed his magnifying glass from his pocket, leaning over the keypad. His lips were dry and his tongue darted out to moisten them. His eyes were wide. The thrill of the chase was upon him as he scrutinized the buttons of the keypad for fingerprints.

All of a sudden a whining noise filtered into his ears and the oh-so-familiar blue and yellow lights flashed through the slatted blinds of the kitchen windows. Sherlock growled. Wonderful. The police were here.


	5. Chapter 5

_It was five in the morning. She was in the back seat of his car, wrapped up in his coat; he wasn't a _complete _dick. The car was warm to a comfortable degree. It smelt of money and new books… Fresh, expensive. He could hear the little snuffles of the child behind him and smiled as he took off down the motorway. There was also this freedom he got on the motorway. It was the zig-zags of orange light that fell on his face in the darkness, the rich velveteen black sky that filled with cold, prickly air. From the backseat he could imagine waking up and seeing confusing blinks of red and orange, probably all blurry and mixed up. Poor thing. When she woke up he'd pull over and get her something to eat, a chicken burger or something like that. Then they'd go back to his place. _

_He wasn't an aggressive man at heart. In fact the hardest part was laying the girl down and lashing on great splashes of acid. He often couldn't watch her face burn away. It made him sick. _

_He used to be one of those shy kids. Well, that was a lie. The part people _saw_ was shy. Inside he was a perfectly functional three-dimensional human with beautiful, funny, daring, weird, amazing thoughts. It surprised him as he got older that no-one would listen to his thoughts. Because he had plenty to say, plenty of opinions, plenty of jokes. He saw these loud-mouthed, obnoxious bitches vomiting spiteful crap from their huge gobs, totally uninspired, unimportant crap. And everyone would listen like it was the most interesting thing in the world. High school was hard. People didn't look any deeper in high-school. If you were shy on the outside then they'd label you as shy, they'd think there was nothing else going on, they'd think you didn't have a voice. Hate began to build in his mind. In the part no-one saw. Swarming him, like a big black bug-like virus. His hate for the human race. His hate for unimaginative, cocky, loud-mouths. _

_That's what he'd do to four-year-old girls. He'd save them. He'd listen to their wonderful thoughts, remember that time when people liked listening to him, and then he'd kill them before they could grow into obnoxious teenagers and revolting adults. _

_The girl stirred behind him and he smiled, pulled onto the side of the road. _

_But even now, with this mindset, there was something different about this girl. He wanted to listen, yes. But it was something else. She turned him on. _

'And when did you last see her?'

'At seven O clock last night.' Mary was sat on one of her own kitchen chairs bolt upright, rigid-spine, tense. There were deep grey lines gouged around her eyes and a tissue in her hand. The tissue had been mutilated by her nails. It was twisted in her fist as more tears spurted down her cheeks and a headache crept to her brain. The policewoman was sat opposite her, with a fat red face and open pores, stringy brown hair beneath her hat and an ugly belly straining out of her skirt.

She was married, Sherlock had noticed, and her wedding band was cutting into her large finger. 'I'd just put her to bed,' Mary continued, her voice quiet and sacred. 'She drifted off fine enough… and then… around nine-ish…' Sherlock could hear her voice breaking. 'I popped my head in and…and… she was _gone!' _She broke down then, huge tears, gulping sobs. The policewoman persisted.

'And where were you between seven and nine O clock?' John's hand was on the back of Mary's chair. He was swaying, his fingers gripping it tightly. His eyes were unfocused, heavy lids as always, but deeper lines around them. He looked almost drugged, and he blinked silent tears down his face as if he were oblivious to the fact they were there. Sherlock watched the scene pitifully, arms folded, aiming a scowl at the police officer every now and then.

She was wasting valuable time; every moment was precious. Whilst the kidnapper was speeding away with a small child to God knows where, she was sitting un-empathetically, jotting down useless notes with her well-chewed biro. The officer didn't have children, Sherlock had deduced. She was wearing yesterday's clothes, and had wiped her mouth on her sleeve numerous times. There was dried white gunk on the navy material. She hadn't washed her hair in three... no, four days. There was sleep on her eyelashes and she'd just been eating some kind of beef pastry. The clock read 11.

For all they knew, Lily could have been gone for four hours. Plenty can be done in four hours.

'And where were you before seven? Where was Lily?'

'Well…' Mary thought for a second. 'We went to the park.'

'Mm-hm, and anything suspicious there at all? Anyone following you? Taking an interest in you two?'

Mary shook her head. 'Okay.' She scribbled more in her notepad.

Sherlock was drumming his fingers impatiently, tension building in him like magma in a volcano. They were wasting _time! _

'Excuse me!' Sherlock erupted. The policewoman turned to face him. 'Excuse me but where are the forensics team? We need to get a sample of the kidnappers fingerprint down for research as soon as possible.' She gave a slow blink.

'The girl was taken from her _bedroom. _The forensics team will be checking her bedroom first for evidence.' She turned back to Mary, folding one shapeless leg over the other. Sherlock released a low, involuntary growl.

'Why did you call the police?' he hissed at Lestrade. 'Everything was under control!'

'Well _I _didn't call them Sherlock… but the police needed to be informed anyway! We could have been charged with interfering with evidence.'

Sherlock scowled again, a stubborn black curl dancing over his forehead. He flicked it away with indigence. Whoever called was unaware of how unhelpful they were being.

'Can I go?' John piped up suddenly. The room fell silent. Silent as the tears that rolled quickly down his face. 'I need to go, I need to _do _something, I need to—' he stumbled forwards and clutched the chair for support. 'Like a search party. I need to start a search party for her…'

'I'm sorry Mr. Watson but you have to be kept for questioning,' the woman replied, without a hint of sympathy in her voice. Even Sherlock could _feign_ sympathy.

The back of John's head was messy and uncombed. He was shaking horribly, proper wide, uncontrollable shakes. It was as if his silver tears were just a feature of his face. He didn't seem aware that they were happening.

'Now,' the policewoman leaned forwards, moving her eyes between both parents. 'Most cases of missing children are runaways. There's a very high chance that your daughter has actually _ran away _rather than…' Sherlock couldn't believe this. The stupid cow was talking about this like she was the expert, like she was the one with all the answers.

'Don't be _ridiculous_!' Sherlock piped up again, disgusted. Everyone turned to face him with shocked expressions. 'This child didn't _run away! _She's four years old, not fourteen! This child was snatched from her bed, this child has been _abducted!'_

John watched, horror-stricken as Sherlock spoke. The shaking was utterly out of control. It was overtaking him now. The nightmare. The terror. The thoughts. The thoughts of his acid-dead child. Horrible thoughts. Sickening thoughts. It was the deepest darkest place he had ever been in. And he was utterly helpless to escape it.


	6. Chapter 6

_The clock read nine in the morning. It was a wonderful time. The pale sun penetrated through the blinds of the hotel bedroom. Sunlight landed on the girls sleeping face and she parted her lips, as if she were drinking in the light. They'd driven until around six, when the girl was wide awake. As he'd suspected, she wasn't the type to get scared. When she'd fallen asleep again in the back of his car he'd picked her up into his arms and taken her to a Travelodge hotel, where the receptionist greeted them both with a smile. 'Fell asleep,' he smiled, looking down at the child's sleeping face. His stomach did an excited leap as she wriggled in his arms. There was something so erotic about this squirming, breathing, living little girl. When he'd booked them both into a room she'd slept for hours, and he'd enjoyed watching her. She was so innocent, it killed him. He thought of that warm little body beneath him. Squirming. Wriggling. An electric shock bolted through him as he inhaled sharply. _

By four o clock the sun was already in the sky. And the search was on. The race was on. The game was on.

Sherlock was all too aware of the ticking clock. John and Mary had both taken separate cars, and Sherlock had gone with John to check the park next to their house. John was doing this strange thing: holding himself, as if he were cold. He was restless, he kept moving his legs and making noises with him mouth, little frenzied 'Uuuum' noises, as if someone had asked him a complicated question and he didn't know the answer. He and Sherlock both made their way down the frosty path of the park along with a herd of men from the area. They were hacking at branches, tearing through the more forest-like areas of park and calling Lily's name.

Sherlock knew he didn't really belong with a search party. He was itching to investigate. But this time he knew John needed him by his side. John needed his best friend. All the while Sherlock was hunched over, hands in pockets, breath fogging in the air. His mind was in the fast lane, still trying to work out how the kidnapper would have gotten in and out of the house. Also, if it was the same man, why had he changed his tactics? He usually took girls from the street and into his car. Why go to all the trouble of climbing through someone's window, disabling a girl's security system to create a diversion, taking a girl fresh from her bed, and then climbing out the other window?

Sherlock's phone rang noisily, perturbing his stream of thought. He scowled, but fished the phone out of his pocket.

Lestrade.

He stopped, staggering backwards just a little bit. This had better be good news. 'Le Strade,' he answered, his voice low. All of a sudden, John whipped around, his eyes wide.

'Lestrade?' he mouthed. Sherlock nodded.

'Sherlock?' Lestrade's voice was slow and exhausted. 'Sherlock, another girl's gone missing. Olivia Rose.'

'What's he saying?' John whispered. Sherlock signaled for him to be quiet.

'How old this time?'

'Four again.'

'Taken from her bed?'

'No, she was playing outside her house on her bike. Her parents suggest she was taken by the man in the car.'

'At what time was she playing outside?'

'About four in the morning.'

_'What?'_

'Well her parents were arguing and she couldn't sleep, so they let her out of the house for a couple of minutes.'

'What well… what kind of parents let their young daughter out of the house at four in the morning?'

'Bad ones.'

'Oh.'

'And bear in mind Sherlock it's not a dangerous area.'

'But still…'

'Sherlock, _what _is going on?' John suddenly grabbed his arm, shaking it roughly.

'Wait, that means he's got _two _girls with him… If he's kidnapped two girls—'

'Then why hasn't one of them already turned up dead.' Lestrade's voice was now graver than grave. Weak. Pitiful.

Sherlock stared straight ahead, clicking off the call button. He turned to face John.

'Another girl's been kidnapped,' he said, dazed. 'Olivia Rose. Four years old.'

'But…' John's voice was panicked, helpless. 'Why hasn't Lily turned up yet!? Why has he taken_ two_ girls!?'

Sherlock kept his sorrowful eyes locked on the father's face. 'John,' he said slowly. 'Lily might already be dead.'


	7. Chapter 7

**This chapter is probably the most graphic. I just want to warn you because... aw man it's upsetting, and gross, and just *shivers***

**Also, should have mentioned earlier that some of these characters are a little OOC, especially Mary and Sherlock. Yeah, I'm a little prejudiced because I never really _liked_ Mary, and in the bits we saw of her after her secret was revealed, she didn't seem all that lovely. I just kind of can't imagine her being a very nice person. Or is that just me?**

**Also, Sherlock is a little OOC here too because I have no idea how he would actually react to a young human, whether he'd be cold or a little more gentle with her, and also how anxious or unfocused he might become. **

**John, I don't want to call OOC... He gets a bit aggressive later on, but trust me, when a kid goes missing, morals go out the window and that sh*t gets _crazy. _**

**Again, I want to warn you because it's not my intention to make other people sad. **

_He was sobbing now. Disgusted with himself. At first it had been fun, getting the girl nice and doped up, snapping on his gloves, removing her pants…Oh God, what was he _thinking! _It was _terrible!_Her eyes were glassy, but she couldn't move. She couldn't speak. She couldn't do anything. _

_Then when it was over, he packed his briefcase back up with needles. Tore off his gloves. Stuffed the knickers and trousers back onto the little girl. She was crying, her eyes red, her lips parted slightly. That was when _he _started crying. That was when he picked her up onto his lap and kissed the top of her head, saying how sorry he was. He wasn't a pervert. He wasn't a rapist. He knew that if someone were to rape _his _daughter he'd be distraught. That's why he needed to get rid of her as soon as possible. He needed to get rid of the guilt. _

_So he checked out of the hotel and bundled the girl back into his car. After about an hour the drugs wore off, and she began thrashing, screaming, sobbing. He had to pull over and calm her down, hold the cloth of Chloroform to her nose and mouth. Then he watched her eyelids flicker and eventually drop, watched her head nod, her thrashing to become weaker, until she was limp in his arms. _

_He was half-in half-out of the car now. He was on the side of the motorway, near a lump of forest area that made the air smell of pine-trees. The nearest signpost marked 'Manchester.' He really _had _come a long way._

_Swallowing down the sour lump that was forming in his throat, he stepped out of the car, still cradling the girl, watching out for patches of black ice. With his eyes bleeding tears, he discreetly threw the boot of his car open, reached in, and took the large, see-through carton out by its handle. As he slammed the boot shut, trekked deeper into the forest, the pine trees rustled on above him. It was an innocent, breezy day, as he laid her down on the ground and unscrewed the carton. All of a sudden he stopped, looked down on her sleeping chest that was rising and falling. There was a dribble of sick plastered to the side of her mouth and tears sticking her eyelashes together. He'd hurt this one. He'd hurt this one _real _bad. _

_The world had to know. They had to know what he'd done. _

_Settling the acid on the floor he leaned down and moved his gloved hands towards the waist of her trousers. It was one of those elasticated waistbands young children wear, which made it all the more easy for him to slip them off, down her smooth, skinny legs, and fold them neatly beside her head. When that was done he breathed out a sigh, before peeling off her knickers and tucking them beneath the trousers. _

_People could see now. They could see her cold, white gooseflesh, exposed in the winter light. They could see her naked thighs, pimpled with cold, and they could see what he'd done to her. _

_Exhaling loudly he stood again, reached down and picked the capless carton from the frosty ground. It stung his nostrils and his eyes, that sour, chemical smell. He put a hand to his mouth, took one step back, and swung his arm._

_One large ray of acid arrowed through the air before landing on her neck and chest. Within seconds it had sizzled away the fabric of her shirt, and he saw it charring her neck, reducing it to shiny red flesh that glistened as smoke rose from it. With another great big splash the acid hit her square in the face. It got her nose first, dissolving it like a bath bomb in water, before dribbling to her lips. Those rosy red lips were soon peeled back, split open in the perfect teardrop shape. Up her cheekbones and down to her chin, the acid penetrated skin, muscle, bone… until her face was a mess of pumice-stone flesh. Knowing that his work was done, he groped for the handle of the carton. Suddenly he knocked it to one side, and acid pooled noisily onto the ground, catching his ankle. He shrieked, jerking away from it, as the liquid bit into his flesh and burned the side of his trousers. _

_He began to waddle away, his ankle making pain hare through him wildly. Sweat formed on his upper lip. It made his blond hair stick to his forehead as he frowned._

_Now what was he going to do with the other one?_

Their eyes were anguished, their faces so full of grief. No parents were ready to hear of such things. No parents could have prepared themselves.

By the end of the day, nothing was found. John and Mary met up at their childless home, both took a painkiller for their headaches, and got into bed. They were both shivering. They were curled, facing away from one another like gray skeletons, wilting bodies, terrified humans. The horror of what they were facing dawned on them, slapped them in the face, made fear bolt through them. John's mind was frenzied. Distressing thoughts multiplied in his brain. He couldn't escape this nightmare, not this time. His young daughter was missing, she could be anywhere, and he was helpless to stop the kidnapper. He was helpless to stop the kidnapper from drugging her, hiding her, chucking acid on her little face…

He leapt up from the bed suddenly. The shakes were back, as he ran a threesome of quivering fingers through his messy hair. He couldn't do this. He had to find her. He had to do something. 'John?' Mary's fragile voice landed sadly next to his ear. He took a second before turning to her.

She was broken, and trails of tears were marching slowly down her face. Her features seemed to have aged dramatically over the past couple of hours. 'Yes?'

'Get back into bed.' John obediently swung his legs back beneath the covers, his mind blank, dizzy. Mary rolled towards him, hugging him fiercely. She was still crying, making the shoulder of John's shirt uncomfortably damp. 'John… Where is she? Where is our little girl?' In spite of the tears her voice was steady, as if she were genuinely questioning him. The tears became more frequent, and John's own eyes began to sting painfully. He felt choked up, gagged. One particularly disturbing scenario flashed through his mind, making him clench his eyes shut.

'I don't know,' he said weakly.

'Right now,' Mary sniffed slowly. 'I just want her _home_. I don't care what's happened to her. I just want her _here_, with us, safe.'

John blinked. Mary felt like a weak pile of bones next to him. He _did_ just want her safe. He _did_ just want her home. But not before he'd beaten that man to death.


	8. Chapter 8

_This one was the easiest, as you'd expect. It was the definition of easy. Sure, she'd been a little startled. But when she saw his face, she'd relaxed, even smiled a little with those stubby baby-teeth of hers. She knew him, obviously. This one didn't need drugs. He turned the car around, and pulled into the car park of one of those service stations. He forgot how late-night driving was so exciting to a child. She'd dashed on ahead of him, half-running half-skipping, until she was engulfed into a clothes shop. He'd told her to pick herself some clothes out; a pair of trousers, some t-shirts, winter boots, that kind of thing. She swerved happily between racks of clothes before selecting a party dress, a pink sequined thing, with a ruffled tutu skirt. She'd pouted and eventually won him over with her big chocolate eyes. _

_He must be going soft._

_As they were queuing he nipped out of the line and grabbed a six-pack of girl's briefs, two pairs of plain white socks, little booties and an assortment of jumpers, coats, hats, scarves and gloves. He piled the massive jumble onto the desk, paid for it, and then bought her a can of Coca Cola. They both sat opposite one another happily, the girl swinging her legs and slurping her cold drink, the man sat back, breathing in the smell of new clothes. It was so fresh. That's what he liked. This was it now. A fresh start. _

John was there two hours early. He hadn't eaten; there was nothing in the fridge anyway. Sherlock was waiting for him when he got there, his pale eyes wide. He could taste the rush, the thrill, the game. John couldn't tell if Sherlock had slept. He in fact hadn't, but had spent a considerable amount of time lying on his sofa, cuffs loosened, patches dotted up both arms. His mind was full, but he still didn't know what to think about it all; it had been a long night.

He faced his friend. 'John.'

'Sherlock.'

A pause. Sherlock looked John up and down. 'You look terrible.'

'Thanks, yeah.' He pursed his lips. 'Any new leads, Sherlock? Anything? Anything at all?'

Sherlock shook his head sorrowfully. The wind tossed his hair around his white canvas of forehead. 'Where's Mary?'

'She's gone to join the search party.' Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

'Really? I would have thought she would have preferred to be in on the action.'

'Well, actually, no. She's distraught. She thinks her daughter's dead.' John replied bluntly, inhaling sharply. His eyes were red-raw from crying.

'Shall we go inside?' Sherlock said, but timidly. John nodded.

* * *

Lestrade looked the worst out of everyone in his office. His eyes were bloodshot with sleep deprivation, his whole face was sagging, and his shirt was untucked. His eyes widened when Sherlock and John entered. Silence swept the room. Faces turned grave.

'What is it?' Sherlock asked.

'Oh Jesus,' John breathed. He knew it then. They'd found her. She was dead.

'Sherlock,' Lestrade exclaimed. His jacket was open, and the smell of oiniony sweat drifted out. There were donut crumbs littered around his lips. He swallowed, as the detective's eyes bored into him. 'We've… found a girl.'

'What do you mean?'

'We've found another girl dead.' That was when John crumpled. Like he'd been deboned. Spatchcocked like a chicken. He reached behind him for a chair and slowly lowered himself into it, burying his face in his hands. Sherlock swallowed.

'Do we know who it is?' he asked, preparing himself. His hand was near John's shoulder, ready to start comforting.

'No.' Lestrade lowered his eyes and his voice. 'He's become more brutal this time; I'll spare you the details.' As everyone else's head went down, John's shot up. His eyes were brimming with water that was threatening to slide down his cheeks.

'How?' he asked. His pulse was racing. Sherlock opened his mouth.

'John I don't think—'

'No, tell me, _how_!' his voice was suddenly aggressive as he stood up from his chair, a vertical vein rising on his forehead. There was a blush forming on his nose and cheeks, and his chin was wobbling just a little.

Lestrade unstuck his lips, scratching his chin. His eyebrows were furrowed and his eyes were on the ground. The tension in the room made everyone shuffle uncomfortably, and no-one could look at John. Lestrade's mouth opened and closed like a goldfish, as he struggled to find the right words.

'This girl,' he ducked his head, then raised it, before letting it drop again. 'This girl has been sexually assaulted.'

It looked like someone had shot him. His body jerked, his eyelids fluttered, and his hand flew to his mouth. Everything in him screamed 'please don't let it be her, oh god, please, please don't let it be my daughter.' He slid back into his seat, his face drained of colour, his body floppy. Sherlock stood behind him, blinking rapidly, absorbing the news.

'How did you find her?' he asked, but everything in his voice sounded like he didn't want to know. Not John's daughter. No. Not little Lily.

'She was stripped from the waist down.'

John groaned in anguish. Everyone in the room took a moment to acknowledge the noise before turning back to Lestrade.

'And?'

'Her clothes were folded next to her.' His eyes fell on John, who was still rubbing his face. He looked so desperate. 'John? I'm afraid you'll need to come to the morgue and identify her.'

* * *

Even Molly looked like she'd lost sleep. Her shiny brown hair was scraped tightly away from her face. It looked like it was tugging at her skin. Her mouth was a tight line, and etches were whittled around her eyes. She looked from John to Sherlock, a look that said: 'Are you sure you want to do this?'

The tiny body bag was laid out in front of them. The three adults blinked at it, their faces in different stages of sadness. 'John,' Molly started. She sounded so unsure then, like she'd never seen a dead child before. Like she'd never told a father to expect the worst.

He nodded, a quick, jerky movement of the head. His stomach was in knots, like there was an iron fist clenching him. It was a flickering, dawdling flame of fear that danced in him noisily, flaring up, becoming a wild fire. Molly took a deep breath, before pinching the zipper and unzipping the bag.

The first thing John did was look away. The action was accompanied by an 'Oh G-God.' Sherlock stared at the half-naked body with his calm, relatively neutral posture. He was clad with the cold feeling of normality, with a hollowness that was immune to pain. Typical psychopath. Easy. Smooth. Cool. Like a blade through water.

He began to deduce, taking the fold of her t-shirt between his finger and thumb. The material was cheap, the kind lower-class mothers would buy their children from the marketplace. His guess would be no more than two pounds. She was currently wearing trousers; the elasticated waistband was gouging a pink dink into her pale skin. She wasn't wearing pyjamas. Lily was.

He breathed out a sigh of relief. 'John? It's not her.'

'Oh thank God!' it all came out as one singular exhale, as the father gripped onto the side of the table. Molly stood awkwardly. What was she supposed to say? Congratulations?

'It's Olivia Rose,' he said. Olivia Rose was fully clothed at the time of her kidnapping. Her t-shirt had caught some kind of fug between the fibers… Tobacco smoke, most likely, and seeing as neither John nor Mary were smokers, it couldn't be their girl.

'There's more,' he continued, moving his magnifying glass further up her legs. Molly and John delicately averted their eyes. 'He hasn't been as careful this time. No… Rather sloppy, in fact.'


	9. Chapter 9

_It was weird… those things he did with Olivia Rose...he didn't regret them. Not _now _anyway. Well, that's the deal with being a bipolar psychopath; the two don't always go hand in hand. _

_His ankle battered now. It had made him limp. In fact, when he'd gone to pay for his parking ticket, the girl had actually asked if he was okay. He liked that about her, not always thinking about herself. She was a nice girl too; her mother had raised her well. The only down side was that she was getting tired. He'd forgotten how kids really need their sleep or else they'll get very fed-up very quickly. When she began to lag he'd driven her back to his place and put her to bed, where she'd began crying for her mother. He buried his head in his hands as she wailed noisily, and thought for a second about using a bit of Chloroform to help ease her along._

'Where _were _you?' Mary thundered the minute John entered the house. She was shaking, her lip wobbling badly, her knuckles white from gripping the side of the counter so tightly. John sighed, wondering how she had the energy for shouting.

Then he remembered, it was Mary; she _always _had the energy for shouting.

'Mary, please,' he started.

'No! John, I _needed _you. Where the hell _were _you?'

He paused, sliding a mug out from the cupboard. Mary had two shopping bags slouched by her side. They hadn't been unpacked into the fridge yet.

'I was with Sherlock.'

'With _Sherlock? _' John kept his head down, fishing a teabag out of the cupboard. 'Well why weren't you out there! Why weren't you out searching for your _daughter _John! Why were you—'

_'__Because what's the point!?' _He slammed the mug down with such force that it was a wonder it didn't smash. His face was a fiery red. It was all the anger, all the frustration, all the fear, the tiredness, the waiting, the dread, _'__You know they found another girl, dead! Only this one he'd assaulted!' _He suddenly charged towards Mary, seizing her by the shoulders and shaking her. _'__He'd _raped _her Mary! Why do youthink _ours _will be any different? Why do you think we're protected somehow? She-Is-DEAD!' _He stopped suddenly, and as quickly as it had come, the anger slid away from his face. A frightened man was hidden underneath. He backed away, let go of Mary's shoulders. Air filtered back into his body, like ash filling a vase. He was cold again. The red mist of rage cleared from his eyes.

Mary watched, stony-faced. The seam of a tear slid down her cheek as she shook her head slowly at John. 'Is that what you think?' she hissed. John dropped his head, like a child being scolded. 'John… you honestly think Lily's dead?' He kept his eyes rooted to the ground, and heard her move towards him. To his surprise, she cupped the side of his face in her hand, and moved it towards her. 'We can't think like that,' she whispered. 'We can't, John. We can't give up on our little girl. What if she's still out there? She'll need us. She'll need our help. Please, John.'

John stared into her eyes. They were truthful, honest. He nodded. 'You're right,' he muttered, his face trying to smile. 'You're right,' he said again, and pulled her body towards him.

* * *

'We've found new leads!' The first thing John saw was Sherlock charging towards him with the energy of an ardent child.

'What?'

'New leads! We found two different fibers on the girl's body; look!' He thrust a piece of paper under John's nose, who took it between his hands carefully. It was a lamented photograph of an enlarged red fiber. 'He was wearing a red scarf on the day of the abduction _and _the murder. My guess is he's still wearing it now; probably didn't want to risk taking it off for the police to find lying around… and a second fiber too,' he quickly switched the picture John had in his hands for another one. 'The acid must have hit the side of his leg, see, it's burnt away the hem of his left trouser leg. He's wearing pin-striped trousers and his ankle's been burnt badly… We're getting closer to finding her John! We're getting closer to finding Lily!'

John stared up at him. 'Sherlock…' He felt dazed. There were so many things to say. 'Thank you.' Suddenly he wrapped his arms around his friend, causing the detective to flinch and look down at John, confused. 'Thank you,' he said again. Sherlock let his face relax, reproachfully unwinding his arms and letting them rest ever-so-gently on John's back.

'It's ok,' he said, as John continued to hug him fiercely. 'By the way um, we've already released warnings to the general public; We're looking for a blond man with pin-striped trousers and a red scarf in a sliver Mitsubishi.'

'Good. That's _brilliant_.' John slowly let go of Sherlock, taking a large step back. The detective gave a sigh of relief, letting the air circulate in front of him again. The wind snapped at the lapels on his dark coat, scattering his curled black hair along his forehead. 'Well then… what do we do now?'

'Now,' Sherlock folded his arms across his chest. 'We wait.'


	10. Chapter 10

_She had her passport all ready. He had the tickets now; one man, one child to Madrid, Spain. He knew some people there. Had some connections. He could get a little Villa sorted out for the two of them. It would cause less suspicion than you'd think in winter. Middle-aged people travel there all the time to flee the English weather; it would just look like a normal father and daughter spending a warm Christmas together. _

_He'd told her to pack. Bought her a little pink suitcase where she'd dumped all her new clothes, excluding the outfit she was wearing currently. She'd also picked out a Disney Princess colouring book for her to do on the plane. That was a good idea. Keep her nice and quiet. 'We're going to Spain!' he'd said that morning, when she was just beginning to squirm awake. She yawned, rubbing sleep from her long eyelashes. 'We're going to the airport!' he said again, as she blinked up with confused brown eyes. Shaking his head, he gently picked her up under the armpits and held her little body to his shoulder. She still had that warm bed smell, her little brown curls tickling his cheek. He kissed the side of her face as she nuzzled into his red scarf, and he carried her out of the house with one hand, tugging their suitcases along with the other. _

Lestrade's office was busier than busy. Buzzing. Pulsing with life. It was littered with noise, snippets of conversation, phones ringing… John and Sherlock could hardly cross to the other side for people darting in front of them oblivious. 'Sherlock,' Lestrade forced his way towards the two. He looked better today, with his hair washed and his eyes less red. 'We managed to get a sample of his footprints on the ground next to where the girl was found.'

Sherlock frowned, a tiny, crease of the brow, before looking at the photograph Lestrade had put in front of him. His arms were still folded discreetly behind his back as he said calmly: 'Size five feet, six feet tall, wearing a pair of black laced dress-shoes; not good for that kind of thing.' He lifted his head from the paper and stared straight ahead.

'Right… Thanks.' Lestrade nodded. 'Black, lace-up dress shoes, is that right?'

'Yes, and there'd be a distinct smudge of mud on the side too, judging from the angle he was standing.'

'Okay everyone, we're looking for a blond man, six feet tall, pin-striped trousers, size five feet, red scarf, wearing muddy black-lace up dress shoes and who walks with a limp.' Faces turned towards him, and the talking became a notch quieter.

'Alright, we'll try and broadcast that ASAP,' Sally's frizzy head came into vision, as she began scribbling notes quickly into her notepad. Sherlock could see her lips moving as she mouthed the words.

'We're getting closer, Sherlock,' John said, his voice hopeful. Sherlock nodded blankly. There was something else. Something that was playing on the back of his mind.

His phone rang in his pocket. He stopped to pick it out and answer it. 'Hello?'

'Hello?' A Spanish woman. She sounded upset.

'Are you alright?' Sherlock asked, concerned. 'Do you need any help?'

'No, no… well…'

'Why are you calling?'

'My daughter, she's… well, she's missing.' Sherlock sighed, screwing his eyes together tightly. Six girls. Now he's taken six girls.

'Alright, well, we'll be on our way Mrs…'

'Manrick. Maria Manrick… but Mr. Holmes, that's not _just _why I called. I think… I think the kidnapper is my ex-husband.'

* * *

'We were together for five years,' Maria said quietly. Sherlock nodded. She was a skinny thing, tanned, high cheekbones, pouty models' face and rounded breasts. After just showing him their wedding photograph, he could see why they were together. They were the perfect Barbie and Ken pair. 'We had a daughter after our third year married. Ola.' She blew her nose on her tissue. 'But then… he started acting strange. He got these mood-swings, and we realized that he was bipolar. One minute he'd be lovely and kind, the next… aggressive, angry, and he'd hit us.'

'I see.' Sherlock was uncomfortably sitting opposite her, wondering how to rush her along into the meat of the story. He didn't really want to push her too hard.

'I decided that I'd had enough… so I moved from Madrid to London with Ola, and managed to get a divorce. But he followed us. He was living in England now too… well… England _was_ his home, so I didn't think he'd bother us. And in court they said he wasn't fit to see Ola again. I thought we'd be safe.'

'And what's happened recently? When did Ola go missing?'

'It was yesterday.'

_'Yesterday?'_

'Yes.'

'And you didn't think to contact the police?'

Her face crumpled as she shook her head. 'I'm sorry!' she cried. 'It was just Lewis being Lewis! I thought… Oh I don't _know_! That he'd respect the law! That he'd have her back before the day was over! Getting the police in wouldn't have _helped,_ Mr. Holmes!'

She couldn't speak for crying, and she was sobbing into her tissue. She just about managed to string a broken sentence together. 'He'd changed! I could tell it… he,' she gasped and hiccupped 'he was so angry! And he'd taken my Ola away! I'm sure it was him that took the other girls! Just… stop him, please. Please don't let him hurt my daughter!' She buried her face into her hands, her shoulders jerking. John stood carefully, before cutting across the room to sit beside her. He patted her back gently and awkwardly.

'Do you know his address?' Sherlock persisted. She managed a nod. 'Could you write it down for us?'


	11. Chapter 11

_They were so close now. So close to the airport. So close to their new life. Just, so close. But he could sense something was wrong. He knew someone was onto him. Maria wouldn't dare, would she? Meek, timid Maria? _

_He brushed the thought aside. It didn't matter now. All that mattered was getting the two of them to Spain. He urged the traffic forwards in his mind, rocking the sleeping child in his arms. _

Sherlock was frowning. The thing, at the back of his mind… it was still bothering him.

Then it hit him.

Where did Lily fit into all of this?

Olivia Rose was dead. So were all the other girls, apart from Ola, Lewis's daughter. Where was Lily? Where was he keeping her? What had he done to her?

John was drumming his fingers nervously. The two were sat in the back of a taxi, heading towards Lewis's house. Maria had even been kind enough to spare a photograph of him. The taxi pulled up outside a white, cube of a house. It looked more like a hotel villa, with a tiled porch and huge white arches around the door. 'Thank you,' Sherlock said hurriedly, unclipping his seatbelt. John soon followed, his heart thumping nervously in his chest. The two were disgorged onto the pavement, where they darted up the slim stone pathway towards the door. There was a heavy garden surrounding them, dark green leaves bobbing placidly in the raw wind.

Something was off about the place. Sherlock ran to the front door, ramming his knuckles on it loudly. No answer. 'Open up!' John shouted, only to be hushed. Sherlock sniffed.

'No-one home.'

'What?'

'The lights are off. The place is empty, see for yourself.' John obediently leaned closer towards the window. The interior was dark and shady, and stripped bare, apart from a slouching green sofa in the corner. 'Come on.' Sherlock observed the front door, before gently leaning his shoulder against it. All of a sudden he drew backwards and gave an almighty slam with the side of his body, splintering the flimsy wood and caving the door in on itself. 'Cheap wood,' he muttered, before reaching his hand into the rectangular hole he'd made and unlocking the door from the inside.

All lights were switched off. The place was empty. John and Sherlock trekked inside, their forms bathed in shadow. 'Where is everything?' John asked, his voice echoing through the house.

Sherlock paused.

'He was renting this place under the name "Charles Rice,"'

'How do you know?'

Sherlock stooped down and picked up one of the bills littering the floor. Charles Rice was printed on the front. 'Oh… Well, where is he now? And where are the girls!?' his voice became more panicked.

'Let me think…' Sherlock kept staring at the bill, his eyes narrow. It was addressed for today; he hadn't been gone long.

But where to?

'The _airport!_' he thought out loud. 'Lewis is taking Ola to the airport! He's leaving the country with her! Quick!' He seized a hold of John's wrist and tugged him back through the battered door. Adrenalin was pulsing in his veins. They were so close now. So close to finding him.

'What? But where?'

'Isn't it obvious John?!' Sherlock clattered down the pathway, his friend in tow, the bushy garden brushing at them as they passed. 'Why else would the man kidnap his own daughter? He wants her to live with him! And where better than Spain? He'll know people there won't he?' Sherlock raised his hand, hailing a taxi. The small black car ground to a halt in front of them. 'Heathrow,' he said, clambering into the backseat. John entered through the other side, strapping himself in. Sherlock whipped his phone out of his coat pocket, stabbing in a number. 'Lestrade? We've managed to track the kidnapper to Heathrow airport. He'll be leaving in fifteen minutes on a plane to Madrid with a little girl, Ola. No, well we're travelling there now. Alright, but hurry!' with that he tapped the end call button and sat back in his seat.

John blinked.

'Sherlock?' he said timidly.

'Yes?'

'What about Lily?' His voice was sorrowful again. 'Why haven't they found her? Why hasn't she turned up? Why is she—'

'John,' Sherlock cut him off. 'We're dealing with a bipolar morally ambiguous psychopath; I doubt he sticks to routine much. We'll get the information out of him. We'll find her.'

John dragged a hand to his mouth. 'I'd better call Mary,' he exhaled, slid his phone from his pocket and flicked through his contacts. He selected her name before holding the phone to his ear. It went straight to voicemail. He frowned. 'Well that's weird…'

'What?'

'Mary's got her phone switched off. Isn't that weird? I mean she was going on last night about how I wasn't telling her where I was.'

'Don't worry. She's probably forgotten; I'm sure she has more things on her mind right now.'


	12. Chapter 12

**Hi guys! So just a reminder that John is a little OOC in this chapter... perhaps a bit _too_ aggressive, but I would love love love love LOVE it if you would review!**

**REVIEW! I'M BEGGING YOU!**

**No but seriously, makes me a little sad when people don't review )':**

**Enjoy**

_Sometimes he hated children. Not his own child, of course, but those rough kids. Standing in a line for security checks wasn't made much easier when a small child zipped in front of him, wielding a plastic toy aggressively. He was wearing a vicious red football strip and his blond head was shaved but for the ponytail that hung at the back. His mother looked like a dripping wax candle, with a droopy, smoker's face and a sagging chest. Her hair was dyed red and her shoulders were a sickly white. She leaned tiredly against the rail as her horrible little child ran around screaming. God, the temptation to kick him was immense. Holding the little girl protectively to his chest, he shuffled forwards in the queue, praying the kid wouldn't wake her up. _

'Hurry!' Sherlock darted out of the car so quickly it was a wonder he didn't do a shoulder-roll to give the display some flare. He was already running through the crowded car park and towards the glass entrance before John had even got himself out of the door. His friend managed to catch up with him quickly enough, narrowly dodging families who were dragging their suitcases along behind them slowly. Everything seemed to be notched up to high speed. It was like being in a fast-paced action movie.

The minute they were inside, Sherlock raked his head from side to side, drinking in his surroundings. 'Gate six!' he yelled at John, and the two took off towards the line of people. Sherlock began to roughly shove his way through the queue, much to everyone's anger.

'Sorry,' John said to their bewildered faces, gently easing his way towards Sherlock. He shoved past a middle-aged couple who were handing their suitcases to the check-in girls.

'Excuse me sir but I'm going to have to ask you to join the back of the queue,' one of the check-in girls said impatiently.

'No, I need you to alert the airport's security, there's a dangerous man boarding the 15:20 flight to Madrid with a young girl.'

'I'm sorry?'

'There is a kidnapper trying to get onto one of your flights!' Sherlock yelled.

'Excuse me sir but who are you?'

'I'm inspector Graham Lestrade,' he lied, tugging Lestrade's ID badge out of his inner-pocket.

'_Greg_ Lestrade,' John whispered.

'Yes, _Greg_ Lestrade… did I say Graham?'

'Yes.'

'And who are you?' she aimed her question at John.

'I'm John Watson, his assistant.' She sighed heavily.

'Alright, I'll alert security for you. What's this man's name?'

'Lewis. Lewis Bell. But he might be going by the name Charles Rice.'

'Alright then,' she stabbed a number into the phone by her desk. 'I'll call security now… Lewis Bell did you say?'

'Yes,' but Sherlock was already walking away, his eyes trained on the line of people shuffling through security checks. John followed.

'Sherlock,_ what_ was that?'

'What do you mean?'

'Using Lestrade's ID!'

'Oh John, it's an_ airport_! Security's so tight here they won't let anyone through unless it's an absolute emergency or unless they had the title of Police Officer. Consulting Detective probably wouldn't have cut it.'

'But you know we'll get caught soon and—'

'That isn't all too high on my list of reasons to worry.'

'Excuse me sir, do you have a boarding pass?' The woman at security held her hand out expectantly.

'No,' he flashed the ID again. 'Police officer… _Greg_… Lestrade, I'm here to prosecute one of your passengers.' And with that he took John by the wrist and began tugging him through the swarms of people.

_'Sir!'_ the woman called after them indignantly. But Sherlock couldn't hear her. His mind was blocked. He just needed to find this man. The threat of him slipping through his fingers was too great.

The lines for security were incredibly tight. Sherlock was pushing and shoving until the stew of baffled people parted and he cut straight through the middle of them. John was hot on his heels as the two stopped, pulses racing, throats clogged, desperate to find this man, the missing link, and to piece this goddamn mystery together.

John devoured the scene with his eyes. Blond hair, blond hair, blond hair…

All of a sudden, his eyes fell on it.

The pale pulp of a head. The red snake of a scarf. A child's bare feet poking out of the other end.

It was as if he'd somehow lost his morals. They'd slid from him, his mask of forced composure had slipped from him, leaving him a raw, livid human.

This man had his little girl. This man had caused all the pain, the sheer terror of removing Lily from his life. He'd caused many a sleepless night, many a red-raw eye and many a ruined life. John was gripped with hate as he charged towards Lewis Bell.

_'Hey!'_ John's voice thundered through the silent room. Lewis whipped around, and John saw his strong jaw, his blue eyes, and the sleeping girl in his arms.

Not Lily.

Shit.

Whilst Lewis was still searching from where the noise had come from, John rammed him from the side, knocking him to the ground. The girl flew out of his arms as John wrestled the man to the ground, pinning both arms behind him. He shrieked in pain, his body writhing, flipping like a fish out of water as his shoulder socket clicked loudly and white-hot pain was sent searing through his body.

'_Ah!_' he screamed as John sat on his back, digging his nails into the flesh of his wrist.

'Daddy!' Ola's shrill voice echoed through the airport as Sherlock approached rapidly behind them. He took hold of the child's arm, dragging her up off the floor and pulling her gently towards him.

'John,' he said calmly, as Lewis continued to scream.

_'Daddy!'_ Ola was hysterical now, fighting against Sherlock's concrete grip. He drew her flailing body back towards him with minimal effort.

'John,' he said again. But he didn't have the heart to force John away from the man's body. He couldn't. Not as the silver wire of tears still slid down his face.

'Help me!' Lewis managed to yell from the floor. 'Get this man away from me!'

'Scotland Yard, stand back!'

'Oh Jesus Christ,' Sherlock muttered. Lestrade darted towards the scene, panting.

'What's going on?!'

Sherlock paused. 'It _appears_ to be a brawl.'

_'Daddy!'_

Lestrade whipped his head towards Ola.

'Well Jesus Sherlock_, get her away from them!'_

'Of course… here you go.' He took Ola's small hand tightly in his before passing her to Lestrade. Lestrade took it promptly, leading the child away. He shot a glare at Sherlock's back.

John took a fistful of blond hair, dragging the man's head up off the floor. His nose was bleeding heavily and he was whimpering in pain. A clot of blood slid down his throat, splitting there like the skin of a sausage. He coughed it out loudly as John watched, scowling. He lifted his glassy eyes. 'Where,' he managed to pant between coughs. 'Where's Ola?'

John grinned. He didn't answer. He didn't even say the line 'You'll never be allowed to see her again.' He just remained silent.

_'Where's Ola!?' _

That was is then. The shout into silence. The unanswered question. The terror of not knowing. It all ricocheted back to the man like his own echo on the white airport walls.

**Welp, looks like we have our man! (no but really it was immensely satisfying writing this dude getting twatted by John.)**

**REVIEEEEEEEWWWWWWWWW!**


	13. Chapter 13

**Hi guys! I just wanted to say that I'm very happy with this chapter, it is in fact my favorite chapter, and for you to PLEEASE REVIEW! **

**PRETTY PLEASE! **

**I can also see all the people who read this story and I just want to say thank you; it's not done badly at all views-wise, but... ohh I dunno, it always bugs me a little when the amount of reviews are unequal to the amount of chapters! (sorry, I know its stupid I just love even numbers ;D) **

**So anyways, I'm proud of this chapter but, like the chapter before it, it...was...so...fun...to...write...this...guy...getting...hurt...**

**I hate Lewis Bell. I really do. **

'No comment,' Lewis said smugly. He glanced at his solicitor, who nodded once in response. Sherlock shifted in his seat. He'd begged Lestrade for this opportunity, for this interview. He needed to get something out of him. But they'd been at it for more than twenty minutes, and Lewis Bell wasn't talking.

After the incident at the airport, John had made his own way home, Ola had been passed back to her mother and Lewis had been escorted to Scotland Yard with minor injuries to his nose and shoulder. The room was painfully hot. Sherlock decided to break the questions and just sit.

Lewis smirked in response to Sherlock's silence. 'What? Have you run out of questions to ask me? Are we having a staring competition now Detective?'

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. 'I know you think that keeping silent will stop you from landing in trouble. But we still have a reason to prosecute you anyway on the abduction of Ola Manrick.'

'She's my daughter.'

'She filed a restraining order against you.'

'I have the right to see her!'

'No, you're actually _forbidden_ to see her.' Lewis sat back in his chair. 'Now,' Sherlock began. 'Where are you keeping Lily Watson?'

Lewis exhaled angrily. 'No comment.' He looked Sherlock up and down, somewhat disgusted. 'You know I am not a pedophile or a murderer as you're suggesting. I'm a father. I didn't touch those girls.'

Sherlock leaned towards him. In a low voice, he said 'We know it's you Lewis. We have DNA.'

He didn't speak. But Sherlock saw his expression quaver, just fleetingly.

He continued. 'Why don't you just help yourself and tell us why it is you do what you do? It can help your defense. If you keep saying "No Comment", we've got nowhere to go. No-one's going to sympathize with a man who won't admit what he's done. If you start telling me what drives you, we might be able to get some psychiatric evaluation. They can be really useful when the time for sentencing comes around.'

'What DNA?'

'Oh Lewis, I can't go telling you all my secrets can I?'

'You're bluffing.'

'I'm not allowed to bluff.'

He sat back in his chair, took one long breath and sighed out heavily. 'I don't believe you.'

'I'm not lying, Lewis.'

There was another pause, where Lewis looked at his solicitor. The solicitor's face was impassive, as he dropped his head and shook it.

'No comment,' Lewis said firmly.

'Lewis,' Sherlock said, his voice low. 'We found Olivia Rose's body on the side of the road near Manchester. You left clothes fibers on her body and footprints in the mud beside her. There were three cartons of acid in the back of your car. Your wife identified you and you fit our suspect description perfectly. We _know_ it's you.'

* * *

Sherlock stuck his hands under the cold tap. Lestrade had thought it best to take a break from interviewing, and that when Sherlock came back Lewis would be ready to talk. But Sherlock knew he'd probably keep the charade up till death. He'd interviewed men like that before; the men that seemed to believe every word that came out of their mouth. They were persistent, stubborn, and often took some work. Bringing the water up to his face, Sherlock rubbed at his eyes and down his cheeks. There was a lot more riding on this man. He'd already slaughtered four girls, raped one, tried to illegally smuggle one out of the country, and was now holding the sixth hostage God knows where.

But there was something else. Something that made Sherlock shudder. It was the way he treated Ola. It was the way he'd held her in the airport, close to him, like he couldn't bear to let go. The very image of them together disgusted Sherlock, made his skin crawl.

He checked his watch. Half past five. Time to retrieve Lewis from his holding cell.

The duty sergeant opened the door and the first thing Sherlock saw were pin-striped trousers and a bare torso. And Lewis Bell hanging from the bars of the cell window by his shirt.

'Shit!' Sherlock dashed towards him. His face was already turning blue when the detective grabbed him by the hips. He heaved his weight into the air, slackening the sleeve of Lewis's shirt, arms shaking, face twisted in effort, everything trained on keeping him high in the air. The patters of feet were distinguished behind him, and he felt people dart into the room.

'Shit!' he heard Lestrade say, but he didn't turn to see. Everything was focused on keeping the bastard in the air, as high as he could manage. Sherlock wasn't going to let him die. The sight of Lily, of John and Mary's heartbroken face summoned strength into his arms. A bead of sweat formed on his brow as he bit his bottom lip and gripped the sides of the man's limp body tightly.

His weight had pulled the knot taunt. His body was jerking as Lestrade stood forwards, beginning to hack wildly at the cotton of his shirt, trying to free him. Sherlock felt another set of arms wrap around Lewis Bell's waist, halving his load.

Then his body bent in half like cardboard and his shirt was liberated from the metal bar. His upper body flopped forwards as Sherlock staggered, along with the duty sergeant, to lower the man to the floor without dropping him. 'Get an ambulance!' Lestrade shouted to the figure in the doorway. Sherlock put his fingers to his neck.

'Weak pulse, we need to get this off,' he gestured towards the remaining shirt-sleeve that was cutting into his throat. Sherlock tried to slide his fingers beneath the taunt material, but could only manage one.

'Jesus, we're going to lose the bastard! Sherlock, breathe some air into him.' Sherlock fired a look at Lestrade, who was busy hacking at the fabric of Lewis's shirt with his Swiss army knife, but did as he was told; he couldn't waste time now.

Sherlock felt sick to the stomach as he held Lewis's nose and covered his lips with his own. He tasted of coffee. Sweet. The images of dead children flooded Sherlock's mind, coming in thick and fast.

Breathe in. Blow out. A half-naked little girl. Breathe in. Blow out.

Christ, he'd rather drag the fucker's eyes out than do this.

Breathe in.

Blow out.

Breathe in.

Lestrade cut through the last of the fabric and told Sherlock to stop as colour began to flood back to Lewis's face.

'Okay,' he stood up. 'Let's see if the bastard can breathe.' They stood watching his chest rise and fall. Soon after his eyelids began to flicker.

'Thought we'd lost you for a second there Lewis,' Sherlock said, as he looked up, disoriented.

'Can't have you popping off like that when you've stolen five girls now can we?' Lestrade said.

Lewis frowned, confused. 'Five?'


	14. Chapter 14

**Hi guys!**

**So I'll be going home tomorrow and I'm going to have to add the next couple of chapter on soon-ish because I'd better start packing now...**

**Also, like the rest of the world I'm depressed about going back to school so I beg of you with all my heart: REVIEW! I'LL LOVE YOU, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE REVIEW EVEN IF YOU HATED IT!**

**This is the chapter where all is revealed... dun dun DUN! So um, bear with me.**

**Also, I probs won't be able to write any more starters in bold begging you to review, so for the other chapters, not just this one, I must please ask you to REVIEW! REVIEW PLEASE!**

**I'll miss this story and I'll miss you guys... enjoy the next couple of chapter and goodbye my friend **

John tapped his fingers on the steering wheel melodically, blowing out through his lips. His eyes were stinging with tears again, but he felt much better now; much better now he'd confronted that bastard.

But there was an overwhelming feeling of dread that was clouding him. Beforehand, sleeping had been the worst part. Then he'd been left alone with his thoughts, with no choice but to face them head-on. When he'd been awake, his mind had been in the fast lane. Everything was moving quickly. He could be distracted by the problems facing him, untangle them, and then move onto the next. But now, with the chasing over, he had no choice but to wait.

He was staring straight ahead, seeing but no seeing. Like his eyes were unfocused, looking at nothing. His brow was furrowed. He'd pulled onto the side of the road, and there was a car parked directly in front of him. There was something about it, something that made the back of his mind itch. He leaned forwards a little, focusing properly on the car. Then he realized.

The number plate.

It was Mary's car.

His heart stopped in his chest for a moment as he looked around him. He was on a slightly darkened side street, with no more than three narrow houses packed together. What was Mary doing here? Unclipping his seatbelt, John opened the door to his car and stepped out onto the pavement.

The wind was cold and raw as it gushed towards his face. He wiped the small, premature tears from his eyes before burying his hands deep into his pockets and walking forwards. The houses were empty, with weeds growing in the gardens and beer-cans littering the brown stubby grass. All three were for rent, with boarded up windows. John moved his head confusedly between the three of them, frowning. Where was Mary amongst all of this? Why the hell was she here?

Soon John found he was wandering aimlessly up one of the garden paths, his head bowed, staring straight ahead. He felt odd, like the calm before the storm. There was a gap between one of the boarded up windows. John leaned closer towards it, squinting in the utterly dark interior. He dragged his eyes across the scene.

Suddenly they widened. A sweat sprang to his armpits and his blood ran cold.

Lily was there.

Lying on the bare floor of the darkened house. Her face turned from him. Her curls in disarray. Her little arms lying lifelessly on top of one another.

Not moving.

John gasped, draining his throat of moisture. He staggered backwards, pressing a hand to his mouth.

Lily… Oh Jesus…

Then all of a sudden, he was dragged back forwards, as if gravity itself had pushed him. He bolted to the front door. He didn't even recall his feet brushing the ground. His hands were shaking as he gripped the handle and twisted it in his fist.

He wasn't expecting it to be unlocked and for him to stagger into the empty hallway.

He paused, collecting himself. Light pooled in from the door on the bare floorboards of the hall. His shadow elongated in the light as he crept forwards slowly, as cautiously as he could. His heartbeat was so loud he was sure it could be heard from upstairs.

His breath was jagged as he very slowly clenched the second handle to the living room and pushed the door open.

It was a huge room, with bare floorboards and bare, plastered walls. A chink of light was let through by the space in the window, illuminating the swirling grains of dust. It was empty, but for the limp child who was curled on the ground.

'Lily!' John dropped to his knees beside her. She was lying on her side, on a thin sheet of corrugated cardboard. Her face was pale, and there were needle marks stippled up both wrists. Her beautiful long eyelashes were fused together and her limbs were tangled, lying flat one on top of the other. John took her small wrist in his hands. Her skin was ice-cold. 'Oh God!' he groaned, pinching her bony wrist with his finger and thumb.

Her pulse was so weak that he wasn't sure if it was his own. Blood was thundering so loudly through his veins that he wouldn't be surprised. She was still wearing her pyjamas. John quickly sat up straight, tore off his coat and covered her in it. She murmured, her brow crinkled. 'Shh, it's alright,' John said softly, very gently sliding a hand beneath her coat-clad shoulder blades. His other hands took hold of her knees and as he lifted her, her legs swung as if they were on a pivot. He needed to get her to a hospital. He needed to get fluids into her.

His mind was so overtaken with thought that he hardly heard the click of a gun behind him.

His spine became rigid suddenly, and he gripped Lily tightly to him. Swallowing the dread that was clogging in his throat he turned slowly, gravely. His eyes were pursed shut, sweat was dampening his brow and his breath was high and uneven.

He knew.

Deep down, he knew.

But nothing could have prepared him when he saw his own wife aiming a gun at his chest.


	15. Chapter 15

John blinked, his voice surprisingly calm. He held the palm of his hand up flat. 'Mary,' he said slowly. 'Put the gun down.'

Mary's face was steel. Her jaw was set. But her eyes were flickering, as if she were nervous. John took a step to the side and she blinked rapidly, fumbling with her gun. 'Hey, hey, easy, just calm down Mary,'

'Don't you _dare_ talk down to me John Watson!' she hissed.

'Just… put the gun down, please Mary.' He could feel himself shaking. He could feel the world collapsing in on itself, crumbling onto his shoulders. There was a cold, deep diminuendo within him, like a stone sinking inside of him. Why had she gone and done this? Why?

'Please,' he said again, and swallowed. 'Mary… Why? Why have you done this?' he couldn't stop his voice rising in fury_. 'Why have you done this to us Mary?!'_

She blinked, and said in a steady voice: 'To save our marriage.'

_'__What?_ That's ridiculous! Couldn't we have taken counseling classes or something?'

She shook her head sadly. 'No. It's not that easy with you John. It never is. You'd still leave me.'

'What, so you kidnapped your own _daughter?_'

'No! Well…'

'What the _hell_ is wrong with you!?'

'You have _no_ idea how hard it is to keep you in line!' She blurted suddenly. John took a step back, his eyebrows shooting up.

'In _line! _What am I a _child?'_

'You were getting bored. With me. With our life. I knew I had to do something extreme to keep you in place… and if Lily was missing then you wouldn't have left me alone. '

'But…' he shook his head, lost for words. _'__Mary!_ Our daughter! How… how could you have _done_ this to me!? I thought she was _dead_, Mary!'

Mary blinked slowly.

'Well it was such a perfect opportunity John! You had no idea how _easy_ it was!'

John thought for a second, back to the night where Lily had been kidnapped.

'_You_ called the police,' he said quietly.

'What?'

_'__You called the police!' _His eyes were fiery. How could she have faked such grief?

'Well, I couldn't have Sherlock messing about with my fingerprints could I?'

'You _bitch!'_ he shrieked. 'You're insane!'

She paused, her gun still fixed on John's chest. Lily stirred and her father clutched her tighter. 'Mary,' he said, his voice low and serious. 'We need to get her to a hospital; she needs fluids.' He raked back the anger, trying with all his might to be civil. 'What did you inject her with?'

'Just something to keep her quiet.'

John swallowed, sweat stinging his brow.

She needed help.

He boldly stepped to the side. Mary's gun followed him. 'What are you doing?' she snarled.

John didn't answer. He kept walking, hugging the skinny child to his chest, inching his way out of the open door. 'Don't you dare!' she shrieked, her eyelids fluttering. John took a step backwards, into the hallway. 'I'll shoot!'

He stopped, looking Mary straight in the eye. Her hand was shaking. He swallowed, and shook his head.

She couldn't do it. John could see the pain in her eyes. She didn't want to do anything like this. That wasn't her plan. A single tear slid stubbornly down her cheek, making her blink. He could see her own mask slip away, her face crumple as she tightened her finger on the trigger.

John stepped back. He was almost there now. Almost at the door. His trembling fingers gripped the handle tightly as he tried to calm his breathing. Then, looking Mary straight in the eyes, he opened the door and stepped out of the house.


	16. Chapter 16

The children's ward was vast. Sherlock scanned the room until his eyes fell on John, who was stroking Lily's hand. 'John!' he called, beginning to walk over to the two.

'Sherlock.'

Sherlock approached the small bed, pulled an orange chair from behind him and sat himself down. He glanced at the child worriedly.

'How is she?'

'She'll live,' John muttered. There was a drip under the skin of her hand and small red seeds of needle marks still dotted in her wrist. 'Did you catch up with Mary?'

Sherlock nodded. 'She didn't even move. Just stood there.'

'What's going to happen now? Will Lily be allowed to see her again?'

He shrugged. 'We have to leave that for the court to decide.'

A pause.

'I… I still can't believe Mary's done this,' John said into the silence. He was blinking slowly, and Sherlock wondered when he'd last slept.

There was another deafening silence as the detective shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He tentatively lifted a hand to Lily's head, brushing at her brown curls. They were damp with sweat, and Sherlock tucked a small piece behind her ear.

He was so relieved, it almost knocked him sideways. A great weight had been lifted from his soul as he moved his hand down to Lily's shoulder, down the length of her skinny arm and took her hand in his. Her fingers were slight and bony as he cupped them gently with his palm; it felt like he was holding a trapped baby bird.

John leaned forwards and began stroking at her face with his other hand. Involuntarily, Sherlock did the same to her hand, stroking at the smooth white skin with his thumb. Suddenly her eyelids flickered. John shifted forwards. 'Lily?' he whispered. 'Lily, sweetheart?'

Slowly, very slowly, her shutters of eyelashes parted and she cracked open her eyes.

All throughout her life, Lily's eyes had never been given a distinct colour. They ranged from pale blue to slate gray, and had always been referred to as "John's eyes."

As her bloodshot eyeballs were exposed to the hospital light, she refused to squint, instead staring straight forwards at John. That single look told everything to Sherlock. He saw bravery, endurance, loyalty and strength in her eyes.

She most _definitely_ had her father's eyes.

She parted her little lips, sticky from being closed, and Sherlock brought the small polystyrene cup of water to her mouth. She obediently swallowed down the thin taste of water, her eyes switching slowly from John's face to Sherlock's. She looked him up and down as he tilted the cup, dispatching more water into her mouth.

'Thank… you,' she managed to mouth afterwards.

The fog of misty confusion cleared from her eyes. She was no longer just thirsty, now she was there, aware, conscious. 'Da-ddy,' she struggled with the two-syllable word.

John smiled sadly. 'It's alright now Lily, it's all alright.'

She nodded, tears filling her eyes. 'Where…'

'You're in hospital.'

She nodded again, before hopefully asking: 'Safe?'

John's smile became genuine. He returned the curt nod. 'Safe.' And with that he stood, leaned over and kissed Lily's forehead.

'Love… you…' She croaked as he sat back down.

Then, with a laborious turn of the head she faced Sherlock.

'Hello Lily,' he smiled. She managed to jerk her own lip into a smile.

'Unc… Unc-le Sherly.' Her eyes were still on him, her happy little father-like eyes.

'That's right,' he said gently. 'Uncle Sherly's here now.'

And with that, he slid his hand behind her fragile back, tenderly lifting her upwards. John helped her to sit up before the two men wrapped their arms around her, love pulsing through them, hugging the little girl tightly as she repaid the embrace.

**The End. **


	17. A quick note

**Phew, well, that's over I suppose… *Chin wobbles***

**Okay… this has been massively fun to write. I know that sounds evil because horrible things happen to young children… (Which I'm very sorry if it upset you, it upset me too xxx,) but it's one of the few fics where I just have one idea and just go with it, no chapter plan, I just write and make most of it up as I go along…**

**Professional, yeah…**

**Currently I'm on holiday with four peasants and this whole thing took me about 3 days… I'd better leave my room now actually…**

**Primarily I was quite worried about this fic because I'd never written for the Sherlock fandom before and didn't know how critical you all were. But nah, this has been a fun experiment and I'll be writing for said Sherlock in the near future ;D**

**Over and out!**


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